Beyond The Oath
by superlunary
Summary: Short one-shots based on The Mortal Instruments/The Infernal Devices. Not really a gathered story, just a sort of storage for all my random occurences. It mainly focuses on Jem and Alec (mutually separated, of course) but there will be others.
1. i

The essence of his blue eyes is always present. It is on his blood, on his dreams, on his prayers. It is on the slender fingers as he brandishes his sword, on the faded runes of his cheekbones, on the quiet flourishes that used to announce deaths and oaths. It will be forever scorched onto his mind, as if the turmoil buried beneath the waves of colour were an inevitable poetic reminder of other times.

Jem tries to avoid it.

It is… _odd._ He has always thought himself to have control over how much of the past he let on: Jem knows how to tame his memories, though the tick of the decades that have withered themselves away seem to have fumbled with his impression of himself. Now he can't help it any more.

Jem still longs for the sharp comments he used to throw away unexpectedly (which he always found strange: they were all so accustomed to the acerbic wit and reckless sarcasm of his _parabatai_ , yet sometimes they were shocked with the audacity of the remarks he let out), and he longs for everything he represented. _Bravery. Charm. Loyalty. Beauty. Instincts._ He longs for the sound of pages turning and the flutter of his obscenely long eyelashes. He longs for everything William Herondale means. But whenever he thinks about his eyes -those deeply expressive eyes no one ever seemed to comprehend- Jem feels himself slowly crumbling down to pieces. The wounds reopen once again.

 _Evoking those eyes is evoking the tears that never left them._

Jem tries to avoid it.


	2. ii

Alec's first declaration of love turns out to be completely unintentional.

After getting back from the Institute (a casual fight between Isabelle and Jace that had ended up far worse than anyone had expected it to), he changes into a sweater that is a size or two too big on him and boxers; he then slides beneath he myriad of sheets Magnus owns. The warlock is already asleep, with his back to Alec and a pillow tightly clutched to his chest. Rays of moonlight sneak through an opening in the window, casting shadows on the muscles of his back and turning the tip of his hair to silver. Alec doesn't need to check to know there are dark shades under his eyes that not even glitter and make up can conceal, and he doesn't need to go back in time to know that his hair was as messy even before going to bed. Stress radiates from Magnus like heat radiates from the sun – and just as expectedly.

Alec knows Magnus has been held in a position crooked as an interrogation sign, what with all the pressure from Idris at the Institute, worrying about the imminent war. He has hardly any time whatsoever to eat or even rest properly – it feels inevitably wrong to wake him up. Though Alec cannot help but posing his light fingers on Magnus' lean back, his fingertips barely touching skin, the way a butterfly poises itself upon a petal.

A quick, unexpected series of flashbacks replay themselves on Alec's mind like a sped-up film. He catches a glimpse of catlike irises, blue flames, and gentle kisses; a glimpse of slight stubble, eccentric clothes, and a lazy cat. Alec lets his eyelashes dance and flutter close, lying back against the plush pillows. He travels the path back to the very first time they met, at that infamous party; to the first kiss they shared, right outside Magnus's apartment; to the first night they spent together, all bare torsos and messy bedsheets, all kisses full of love and the most peaceful and undisturbed sleep Alec had cherished in months —years, even.

And now he is certain. Now Alec knows he loves him.

 _Unbelievable_ , he tells himself. _I'm in love with a warlock that seems to thin he is a sparkly hedgehog_. But he is _his_ sparkly hedgehog, and although he knows he doesn't have the guts to confess it just yet, he slowly turns around to face Magnus' back again.

Alec swallows against a dry throat. I love you, he wants to say. I love you and I'm not afraid to own up to it. But he has been taught not to lie (he's not sure by whom, though; maybe it was just himself) and he isn't strong to go against his principles. Alec doesn't know it's an invaluable virtue. So he contents himself with tracing, over and over, with his right hand, three words in the space between Magnus' shoulder blades.

He does this for a while, and while he is slightly scared that Magnus will wake up and catch him like a deer before headlight, it also is… _soothing_. It honestly and truly is. A smile escapes his lips when sleep wins the fight, his fingers hide away inside his frayed sleeves once again, and Alec turns around in bed. He lets out a slight, content sigh that even he cannot hear, before snuggling closer to the pillows and draping the soft white blankets over himself.

He closes his eyes. Just when he is about to fall asleep for certain, after a daydream of a kiss in the rain while on that strange place between sleep and wakefulness, he feels strong arms sliding around his waist. His eyes fly open and widen as Magnus' warm breath caresses the sensitive skin of his ear. The warlock whispers, "I love you too."


	3. iii

It lies next to a tree in all of its urban normality, blending in with the landscape in such way that Alec all but misses it. But he doesn't miss the sharply reflected ray of sun that blinds him for a fraction of second, and he stumbles. He stumbles but he doesn't fall, and the moment he regains his balance his gaze meets the can.

A breeze whispers through his hair, a rush of emotions wavers within his chest, and his trembling fingers hide themselves further up inside his sleeves _. It's just a can,_ he tells himself. _It's just a goddamned can, for Raziel's sake._

But he can't bring himself to tear his eyes away from it. He can't bring himself to stop the quiver of his frown as he moves closer to the can, unable to resume his walk. _Bad boys, kicking cans around_ , Alec thinks. _Smug boys. Playful boys. Angry boys._ ** _Troubled boys_ _._**

A simple contact between feet and aluminium can express such a wide variety of emotions—the urge to undo his steps is unreasonably feeble. Oddly, Alec doesn't try and figure out the meaning behind the swivelling bundle of emotions that fight for dominance. After a second's hesitation, he discreetly turns around and succumbs to his admittedly childish quirk, that of never letting a can go by unnoticed.

 _Cans are there to be kicked,_ Alec tells himself as he heaves a sigh. _The environment can take care of itself._


End file.
